(redrum but in a s-xual and SA view, don't ask, it also has can-iballism)
#Poem
thorn eagle
I love blood.
It's so close, it's part of me. I feel it rush through my veins, see it under my skin. I love it even though it's the first to betray me in front of people, tear me from my hidden emotions. Blood betrays my hidden love, hidden embarrassment, hidden hate. Appearing on the cheeks, and I can't stop it. It doesn't let me hide my tears quickly because of bloody eyes. It shows my fresh wounds by appearing on the body. It's a great part of my womanhood - period, birth of a child.
But I want to see more of it. More and more without hurting myself. I want to kill, but it's wrong and my body screams no - something a man can't understand, I get in a split of seconds. I fantasize about murder, but I back up every time with tears. How could I take life of a child that came from another woman? Through tears and pain and blood. I cannot - that's the answer. But yet, I want to see blood. I want it to flood me, drown me, choke me.
I pick up fresh strawberries - so round, innocent, shiny. It looks like a woman's skin. With all the seed being the imperfections that give birth to another life and the pretty, short, green hair. I hold it in my hand and start squeezing my hand. It tenses - like a woman in pain - I can almost see her fight my hand. I cover her eyes and squeeze even harder. She screams, begs, first wounds start to make under her skin, but she still doesn't bleed.
"Please!" she yells. I'm silent, watching with sick ecstasy at her slow death.
"Don't kill me like this!" more begging. I smirk.
I'm god to her. She can't decide her faith. It was decided long ago. She cries bloody tears. My fingers venture into her soft skin and deep into her body. She bleeds.
'Finally' I think. The strawberry is silent.
Blood drips down my elbow and on my face. It also dirties my dress. I had a pretty, white dress. Clean - I washed it this morning. Now it's bloody, reminding me of my nation. White and red. I killed in silence, just like my nation - no one remembers
it's bad acts. I wake up from a trance - I look at a sweet blood, not at my nation. Some of the liquid drops on the floor, splashing itself across the clean tiles.
I stop squeezing when the red liquid stops leaking from my fist. I adore the lines in silence. And when I'm done - I open my palm. The face of the strawberry woman isn't there anymore. I can't find it. Her heart is dead, crushed. Hair is still there, I cut it off with a knife, like they would do in Auschwitz. And let myself adore the crushed being once more, this time for longer. Blood is slowly drying, sticking to my skin. The liquid on my face already dried with damp patches on my cheeks.
The quiet act of cannibalism begins. I lick the dead fruit - 'Sweet' - I gain courage, biting it slightly - 'God, it tastes amazing' - I let myself moan in ecstasy of taste. It slips shyly from my mouth "Ngh~". I bite some more - it's heavenly tasty. I eat it, like a hungry animal, almost choke on the taste and juices that still stayed in the body. I feel my body warm up from sexual tension 'I'm not a necrophile' I cry 'Why does it taste so good?' I question God. He's silent. I swallow the remains.
Now, the only thing left after the body is blood. Sweet, sticky, red. I start licking it in love. My mind is dizzy, vision blurry from pleasure of murder - 'God, I'm not a murderer' I sob once more, but still lick the blood, like a hungry dog. 'God...' I start my prayer 'If you are there... Somewhere...'